


burning whatever's inside that won't sleep

by ships_to_sail



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 10:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail
Summary: "The first time it happens, it takes Rafael at least a week to figure out what happened. He'd convinced himself he was having a stroke at the age of fifteen. His body feels unbearably warm, and he feels like someone is slowly closing a black bag around his head, his eyesight going dimmer at the edges while every inch of his skin began to prickle."OrFive times Rafael Barba got high on accident, and one time he did it on purpose.





	burning whatever's inside that won't sleep

**Author's Note:**

> title from ["Smoke"](https://m.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/smoke) by W.S. Di Piero via [thelittlestdoc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestdoc/pseuds/thelittlestdoc).
> 
> All my thanks to Robin Hood (kjack89), AHumanFemale, and barbaxcarisi (barbaxbenson) for all their help with beta reads, turning this silly little thing into something I actually kind of love.

The first time it happens, it takes Rafael at least a week to figure out what happened. He'd convinced himself he was having a stroke at the age of fifteen. His body feels unbearably warm, and he feels like someone is slowly closing a black bag around his head, his eyesight going dimmer at the edges while every inch of his skin began to prickle.

He feels his mind racing as he tries to figure out how to get outside. He needs fresh air, and water, and maybe another handful of those Doritos he'd seen when he walked in. And he knew how to do it. He did. Hands on the tops of his thighs, weight distributed evenly, engage your core and stand. But the couch is so comfortable, and his head is so heavy and Lucia isn't expecting him back tonight, anyway. So he feels his eyes close and the bass from the speaker next to the couch becomes a living thing, bouncing on his chest and keeping him from standing. That had to be it, all the music's fault.

“Rafi? Hey, Rafael, you good man?” It's like he's underwater, and he can feel his mouth making words, but by the time they make it back to his ears, he forgets having spoken.

“Yeah, man, I'm good. Gooder than good. The goodest.” And then he was laughing, and someone was punching him on the shoulder and calling him a pendejo. 

He falls asleep on Angelo’s couch and doesn't wake up again until daybreak. His mouth is so dry he can't swallow and his body feels like it's full of dryer lint. He barely makes it to Mass to meet his mother and grandmother, and even with the priest glaring at him, he can't quite keep his eyes open.

It's not until a week later that he hears that the cookies Angelo’s sister's boyfriend's roommate brought weren't just special because they were made with dark chocolate. Nancy Reagan would have been so disappointed in Rafi.

*

The second time it happens, he tries his hardest to prevent it. It's his final year in law school and he knows before he even steps into the club that the cloud he assumed to be tobacco smoke is far too skunky to be just that. But his hand is warm in Claudia’s and she pulls him past the entrance with a wink and a wave at the bouncer. Rafael tries to take one last deep breath of clean oxygen but he doesn't get the chance before the doors swing closed and the darkness swallows him.

“I don't know about this,” he tries to yell over the music, but he can tell by the way Claudia nods that she didn't hear him. Not that he's even sure what he's talking about - the club, the girl, his entire fucking life. His thoughts feel jumbled, tumbling slipshod over one another, muddled by all the sensory input around him.

“You need to relax, Rafi,” he reads the words on her lips and bristles. It's not so much that she's wrong. It's that being told to relax is the most antithetical thing to relaxation. Plus, he was feeling relaxed. More relaxed than he had in months, actually.

“Shut up,” he shouts back and it's supposed to sound angry, but it doesn't, even to him. It sounds whiny. Weak. He doubles down and pulls her towards him swiftly, kissing her hard, all tongue and teeth and vitriol.

Claudia pushes him into a far corner, past the bar and tables and dance floor, a seething mass of sweat and sex and movement. He turns her so that he's on the outside, his short frame boxing her against a metal pylon as his hands roamed her body and her lips traced up and down his jawline. His breath is ragged, and when he closes his eyes he keeps seeing the streaks and pops of color radiating off the dance floor.

The song changes and they're done, bodies peeling apart just long enough to make their way to the dance floor, and the closer to the center of it all they get, the thicker the smoke is and the more Rafael feels like he floating. And it feels so good, the way his whole body is just a little numb, just a little warm, and the freight train of thoughts and doubts and pressures to meet with the DA's office for an internship has slowed down to a crawl. He lets his head fall forwards, his head lolling on his neck and his shoulders swayed and his fingers dug into Claudia’s hips. The night ends at the bar, his reactions first sharpened, and then ultimately muted completely as rounds of tequila and tubes of neon vodka make their way around so many times even Rafael loses count. And Rafi has an excellent memory. 

When he wakes up in the morning, he's naked except for black silk boxers he's 75% sure aren't his, and his stomach hurts. Like, really hurts. With his eyes still closed and a jackhammer dancing lambada on his temples, he lets his hand drift downward and hisses in pain. In addition to being royally hungover, he apparently saw fit to pierce his navel last night. Of course, some part of him sneered. Of course you did. 

He took a deep breath and promised himself he'd get up at the count of five. When five came and went, he swore he'd heave himself off the bed when he hit ten. Which became twenty, then thirty, and Rafael passed out again in a sliver of morning sunshine, promising himself he'd never touch cheap liquor again.

Which, of course, he never did. 

*

Third time it happens, he knows what's happening the minute he takes his first inhale. He should have known. He's never been a big smoker, so it figured that the first time he bummed a cigarette from a stranger at a bar, it was more spliff than cigarette. The first inhale was out of his body in milliseconds, a dragon plume of smoke and hacking coughs that turned his copper face red. He pounds on his chest, loosening his tie and briefly wondering if this is how he was going to die - from lack of oxygen and complete mortification.

The mortification that was made worse by, but didn't originate from, the fact that he couldn't hold his smoke. It had taken root earlier in the night.

“Hey, Rafael, I was just getting ready to call you.” Rafael’s smile widened at the deep affection in Richard's voice. It was that affection that Rafael would later blame. 

Blame for missing the slight turn of a shoulder when Rafael went in for a kiss. Blame for not hearing the small sigh and feigned ‘uh-huh' response when Barba said “this weekend, my mother is finally in town, and she'd love to meet you.” 

Blame for still not seeing it, not until Richard pulled him aside and said, with a kind of ruthless efficiency, that it would be most productive for both of them if they terminated their relationship. Rafael still believed in that affectionate voice, until his mind caught up through the scotch haze and his heart had plummeted to his shoes.

He didn't even like Richard all that much, but when the long days at SVU bled into longer nights at his office, it had felt good to have someone else to take the load off. To suggest a place to go eat, to make the reservations and make sure there was coffee in the house between Sunday night and Monday morning. Rafael had long been accustomed to never needing anybody to do for him what he could do for himself, but it had been...nice. Easy, even, to have one small part of his life unloaded, even a little bit, onto the shoulders of someone else.

So when he'd knocked back the rest of his drink, the burn in his throat allowing him to forget about the one in his chest, he hadn't put out the cigarette like he knew he should have. He took a second puff, and then a third, the minty tobacco seeming to push the high on harder and faster. By the time he caught a cab home, last call had come and gone 45 minutes ago. He'd hate himself tomorrow, his dress shoes completely ruined by the rain soaked walk he'd decided to take, but the tiny drops of cool water felt delicious as they pinged off his flushed skin.

He stripped off his waistcoat and jacket and was shivering to the bone when he got in the cab, but his body felt wonderfully heavy and his mind was made up. He was done with ‘others’ and back to Rafi. That was always going to be easier, in the long run. And as he poured himself into bed, the plan was made.

But man plans, God laughs, and the next day a rumpled mustache named Sonny Carisi walked out of the elevator and in to SVU.

*

The fourth time it happens, it's not more than a blip on the radar. He walks by Sonny's desk and, without thinking, unwraps a lollipop and shoves it in his mouth without thinking. They haven't been dating long, but Sonny is in the habit of leaving treats for Rafi on his desk. Part love, part bribery. 

When he walks past the breakroom and hears Amanda and Sonny talking about their recent bust - a child pornography ring fronting behind a blacklist marijuana dispensary, he spits the sucker out so hard it shatters on the floor. 

But it doesn't matter. The chain of evidence is fucked, Rafael is high as a kite the rest of the day, and it's months before he trusts another speck of sugar left on the desk of any SVU detective.

*

The fifth time it happens, he really should have known better. Should have seen it coming, from the way Sonny rolled his eyes at the dessert table. But in his defense, no one tells him. No one! And everything tastes so good! So when he goes back to the table for a third chocolate brownie, he thinks Sonny's laughter is because of his sweet tooth and the recent diet he swore to go on.

It's about 45 minutes into their ride home that it hits him. Hard. He turns to Sonny and smiles, a syrup smile slow and sweet.

“Hey,” he says, and winds his fingers through Sonny's, fascinated with the way their knuckles feel as they fit together. 

“Hey yourself,” Sonny says back, his voice low and backed by subtle humor. “Did you have fun tonight?”

Rafael nods and begins to giggle, tracing heart shapes on the back of Sonny's hand  
“You know I love Bella and Tommy.” Sonny snorts and raises his eyebrows. Rafael just shrugs, his smile still wide. “Well, I love them more than the rest of your family, anyway. Except your mom, your mom is awesome,” he makes a humming noise and burrowed deep into Sonny's shoulder. 

“Awesome, huh,” Sonny chuckled. “Hey Rafi, how many of those brownies did you eat today?”

“Three? Maybe four? You're not gonna yell at me about my diet now are you,” Rafael whined. The question was buried beneath the loud sound of Sonny’s laughter, and Rafael joined him though he still wasn't sure why. “What's so funny?”

Sonny tried to wave the question away, but he doubled down on laughing and it took a few minutes for him to catch his breath. “Just... you had four brownies?”

“Yeah, they were delicious.”

“I'll bet they were. Simon brought them, and I bet there was more strange in those brownies than the rest of Staten Island tonight.” Rafael’s eyes grew to twice their normal size and a hand clapped over his mouth. 

“Weed? But they were for the whole party.”

Sonny nodded. “Yeah and everyone in the neighborhood knows you don't eat anything Simon gives you.”

“I'm not from the neighborhood!” Rafael practically shouted and then clamped his lips shut, an anxious fear gripping his chest. He began to wonder if anyone else had seen him have so many brownies, racking his memory to try and recall all the faces he'd passed over the course of the night. His gaze drifted off and he turned his attention out the window, lost until he felt a gentle hand underneath his chin, turning his face back towards the interior of the cab. Back towards Sonny.

“Its okay, Rafael,” Sonny chided, his voice gentle and his eyes soft. “Let's just go inside, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rafael said, struggling to remember what he'd been so worried about the moment before. All he felt now was tired. And hungry. For Takís. He hadn't had Takís since he was a kid.

“I don't feel like running to the bodega, Rafi. How about leftover cannoli tonight and we can do the Takís tomorrow.”

He hadn’t even realized he was speaking out loud. He was having trouble making his mouth work, so he nodded and pressed his body close to Sonny and wrapped a hand around his forearm.

The two stayed pressed close as they made their way over the threshold and into the bedroom. Rafael tried to protest as Sonny undressed him slowly, pressing the most worn pair of pajama bottoms into his hands as Rafael moaned slightly at Carisi’s featherlight touches. 

“How about that dessert, Raf?” Sonny's voice was husky and his hands traced gentle scratches up and down Rafael’s bare back. 

“Yeah,” Rafael said, his voice thick.

He let Sonny lead him to the couch and prop him in the corner while he went into the kitchen, and Rafael felt himself drifting to the sound of gentle rattling in the kitchen. When Sonny's weight joined his on the couch, though, he managed to lift his head and open his eyes. 

The blonde grinned back at him, blue eyes playful and his hand full of a plate of cannoli. He noticed Sonny had turned on music and his heart hurt at the soulful sound of “River” by Leon Bridges on vinyl. His newest purchase, it must have been what was left on the turntable. He bobbed his head slightly and shimmed his shoulders back into the warm leather of the couch, slightly annoyed at the tugging on his elbow until he realized it was Sonny, guiding him down until Rafael’s head was in his lap and his fingers were wearing grooves in the slowly silvering brown hair.

They stayed like that all night, only shifting long enough for Sonny to rise and start the record over, returning to his spot and the meditative lull of fingers through silky strands.

*

The last time it happens, Rafael knows full well what he's doing. He's just left the office of the DA and it's official - a leave of absence while his loyalty to the Office is investigated, weighed, and measured against all the ways he was proving to be a pain in the ass to 1PP. That's not exactly how Stone had phrased it, but the issue was clear: it was one thing for him to be a mouthy Cuban lawyer when it worked in the State's favor, and another thing entirely when he was being ‘combative'. Or just. Whatever.

When he called the number a former prosecuting attorney had once slipped him on the back of a business card, he thought the other man would laugh him off the phone.

So, his lingo was a bit out of date. Money still spent, and before he knew it he had a Zippo, a pack of Zig Zag papers, and Sonny Carisi at his door.

“Please tell me that wasn't Andrew Slatter I just saw walking out of your apartment,” the man said, breezing into the kitchen, tossing his coat on the.counter and turning to face Rafael with his hands on his hips. His attempts to look stern only made Rafael want to roll his eyes.

Which he did, with an accompanying shoulder shrug. “It wasn't Andrew Slatter you saw leaving my apartment just now,” he deadpanned, planting a small kiss at the corner of Carisi’s mouth on his way to the living room.

“Good,” the other man said, following him in kind to the large leather sofa. “Because if it wasn't Andrew Slatter then you definitely weren't buying drugs from the most recognizable dealer to the white collar in all of Manhattan.”

“Nope, definitely not,” Rafael reassured him as he pulled a thin sheet of paper out of the roll of Zig Zags and began to roll a joint.

A few moments of silence and then a quiet voice asking, “What are you doing, Raf?”

“Whatever the fuck I want,” Rafael practically barked back, the lid he'd put on his resentful rage threatening to boil over. “If you don't want to be here, I get it.” More silence as his fingers trembled and fumbled and tried to work their way through what he thought would be a simple process. He was a Harvard grad, after all.

“God, you're going to ruin that,” Sonny said with mild disgust. His long, pale fingers covered Rafael’s as he took over rolling the joint.

“You don't have to.”

Sonny cut him a look. “Please. Just, don't ever tell anyone about this, alright? Especially not my ma,” he added under his breath.The entire New York justice system could come crashing down on him, and Sonny Carisi would always be more afraid of Tessa.

Rafael planted a soft kiss to Sonny’s temple as he took the tightly rolled joint from Sonny and watched those long fingers roll a second. They cheers-ed the two against each other before lighting them off the same lighter and sinking back into the couch. 

Their legs entwined slowly as the joints shrank until they couldn't be held anymore, and their bodies seemed to meld with the couch behind them.

“Hey,” Rafael said into the comfortable silence. “I love you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sonny said, his voice simultaneously far away, and coming from inside Rafi’s head. “Me too.”

And maybe Rafi was about to be fired. But he had Sonny and the couch and the silence around them. And maybe that would just have to be enough.


End file.
